


Threaded

by EtLaBete



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Except It's Not Red, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, M/M, Mind Control, POV Alternating, Red String of Fate, Tony Stark Does What He Wants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28461651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtLaBete/pseuds/EtLaBete
Summary: Tony Stark comes out of Afganistan with more than just a hole in his chest and a new suit of armor.
Relationships: Loki/Tony Stark
Comments: 94
Kudos: 292





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zombieporno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombieporno/gifts).



> Many thanks, as always, to zombieporno, who has helped me plot this story just as much as they've listened to me rant. 
> 
> I read a few red string of fate soulmate AUs in another fandom and felt much more drawn to the idea than I usually do to soulmate tropes. After deciding I wanted to try my hand at it, I also decided to combine it with my other fave soulmate trope: the idea that specific instances in one's life makes them a soul match for someone else versus just being born with the match. Hopefully I can pull it off. :D
> 
> Also, just a head's up: the chapters for this will be much shorter than I'm used to writing, more for stylistic purposes than anything else, and will likely bulk up once we're in the meat of the story. Feel free to let me know how the flow feels to you!

When the humvee in front of them bursts into flames, it’s not great. When the soldiers crumple to the ground one by one, it’s bad. When the missile with his name on it explodes, it’s really bad. 

As he lays on the dusty, warm earth thousands of miles away from home, sand billowing around him and blood pooling on his chest, Tony Stark doesn’t think it can it could possibly get any worse than this. 

It can. 

***

The first time he wakes up, it’s to water in his mouth because he’s being tortured. The second time he wakes up, it’s to several hooded men, a camera, and threats in a language he doesn’t understand. The third time he wakes, it’s to an ache in his chest that is literally bone-deep because there’s an electromagnet burrowed where his sternum is supposed to be that’s connected to an ancient car battery. 

That’s enough to send him into a spiral. Tony heaves in a shaky breath as he stares down at it, knuckles white from how tight he’s gripping the makeshift bandages, but then he sees his left hand. Something numb washes over him. Slowly, he sits up. 

“What’s this?” he asks his cell mate, his voice hoarse from disuse. 

“What’s what?” the older man replies, making eye contact with him through the small, grody mirror he’s using to shave. He looks familiar, but Tony’s mind is going a mile a minute and he doesn’t think he could place a name to the face if he tried. 

Instead, he holds up his left hand. A thin, golden string, shimmering despite the dim light of the cell, is looped around his ring finger. There is no actual end to it, just a spot at the far wall where it fades and then disappears from sight. Tony waggles his fingers. The thread jostles slightly but still remains, delicate and beautiful. 

“This,” he says. “What is this? On my finger?”

“I don’t see anything,” the man says with a frown and turns around, resituating his glasses on his nose bridge. He has a kind face, but there’s a sharp edge to his eyes that tells Tony he's been through some shit but decided to keep standing. “Perhaps you hit your head harder than I thought.”

The string is definitely there, but there are more important questions this man might actually be able to answer. Plus, he’s already weak and definitely at a disadvantage. He doesn’t need to add fuel to the fire. “What did you do to me?”

The man scoffs. “What I did is to save your life. I removed all the shrapnel I could, but there's a lot left, and it's headed into your atrial septum. I've seen many wounds like that in my village. We call them the walking dead because it takes about a week for the barbs to reach the vital organs.”

Tony runs a hand over his face and into his greasy hair. “Who are you?”

“My name is Yinsen. We’ve met before, at a technical conference in Bern.”

“I don’t remember,” Tony murmurs, looking down again at his hand. The filament glimmers ethereally. He tries to touch it and feels nothing but a slight zing in the air where it should be.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Yinsen says with a thoughtful expression. “If I had been that drunk, I wouldn’t be able to stand, let along give a lecture on integrated circuits.”

Tony opens his mouth to say something, closes it, and then nods and says, “Fair.” 

They talk more, and Tony gets some answers in the realm of the Ten Rings and weapons, his, lining the pockets of bad men across the Middle East. As if summoned, the men with guns come in and ask him to make more weapons. 

Tony lifts his chin. “I refuse.”

He’s tortured again, choking on water, and he was thirsty before but he isn't now. Honestly, he might never drink water again. After, they drag him out into the blinding sun so the water can sizzle off of him in some cosmic, ironic joke, drying him out all over again until he's just a husk. There are men, dozens of them, and Stark Industries weapons are literally everywhere. Piles of them. 

“He says for you to start working immediately,” Yinsen says, an edge to his voice, because he’s been dragged out into the sun, too. He squints behind his glasses. “When you’re done, he will set you free.”

Tony shakes the man’s hand and plasters a smile on his face. “No, he won’t.”

“No, he won’t,” Yinsen echos, along with a similarly sad smile of his own. 

***

Instead of a missile, Tony makes an arc reactor out of metal and palladium so he doesn’t have to lug a car battery around, and while he does, he comes up with a plan because if they’re going to kill him anyway, he’s going to go out fighting. Yinsen helps, because Yinsen is a good man, a smart man, and Tony wracks his brain trying to remember him but he can’t. For some reason, that hurts more than when Yinsen tells him he’s a man with everything and nothing. 

Everything and nothing. No one’s ever described Tony Stark in a more apt way. 

It all culminates when Tony crashes out of the cave in a literal hail of gunfire and ends up buried in sand and surrounded by pieces of metal from his now-destroyed — and pretty damned well crafted, considering what he had to work with— metal suit. 

Yinsen doesn’t make it. Sacrifices himself, in fact, so that Tony can be free. 

Tony cries into his t-shirt and then trudges through the dunes, the sun beating down on him, until Rhodey finds him. 

A lot happens, after that. There’s a restless, focused energy thrumming inside of him, something he hasn’t felt in a long time, and he has to rise up to meet it. He has to. So he builds and build and builds. He breaks. He’s betrayed. He blasts his demons back to hell. 

He wins, somehow, even though he’s lost so much. 

Through all of it, the string doesn’t go away, no matter what happens. If anything, it glows brighter the moment the words “I am Iron Man” come out of his mouth. 


	2. Two

Loki leans against the wall and surveys the ongoings in the Great Hall. Drink flows freely. Laughter and music fill the air. Bodies move in synchronicity as the lords and ladies of Asgard’s high court dance. Sitting up on the dais, the All-Father and All-Mother overlook the festivities. Frigga laughs, her face a picture of delight, and Odin smiles, just barely, and somewhere amidst the throng of dancers, Thor bellows out a laugh. 

Loki crosses his arms over his chest, allowing his head to fall back against the cool stone. He doesn’t want to be here. Any other time, he would enjoy a good fete, but today, the sounds and scents and people are putting him on edge because he’s already restless and doesn’t know why. The feeling has been crawling just beneath his skin all day, poking at his _seidr_ like a thorn in his side, and nothing he’s done has caused it to abate. 

He closes his eyes and tries to ground himself. His _seidr_ vibrates in anticipation, but he still doesn’t know what it’s waiting for— 

“You look quite glum.”

Loki opens his eyes. Amora stands next to him, dressed in a gown the color of wine with small, glittering jewels in her hair. She smiles sweetly at him when he levels her with a glare.

“You should come with me,” she says, unaffected by his obviously sour mood. “I do wish you would. There is nothing for you here, Loki. We both know that.”

Loki sighs. The words are grating, even more so than usual. “We have discussed this, Amora. I support your travels, but for now, I must remain here.”

“So that the dazzling Lady Sif and the Warriors Three can continue to ridicule you when Thor’s back is turned?” Amora’s red-painted lips twist into a pretty sneer. “They are not worth your time.”

Loki glances to the dais. Across the hall, Odin catches his gaze and holds it. Like Amora’s pestering, this is not the first time in the recent weeks this has happened. Odin has, on several occasions, pinned him with a peculiar look, and end even though he wishes it wasn’t the case each and every time, Loki is the first to look away. He searches the rafters but does not see the ravens, the spying little cretins that they are, though that means nothing. “I am a prince, if you’ve forgotten. My place, for now, is here.” 

Amora just rolls her eyes. If she notices the All-Father looking their way, she doesn’t care, and Loki wishes, for a single moment, that he could latch onto the same carefree attitude as his friend. Amora has never been one to cow to the pressures of court. What would it take, he wonders, for him to fall into step with her? 

“You are not the Crown Prince, last I checked. You are second in line for the throne,” she continues, “and even then, Thor’s coronation isn’t for a time. You’re are a powerful mage with a brilliant mind, and you are wasted here at these tedious events with individuals who do not understand your worth. Come with me to Alfheim, at least. The Elves will welcome us both, and you can practice your magic without contest.” 

Loki smiles tightly, hoping to quell the want surging through him so that Amora doesn’t notice it and latch on. “I will consider it, if it will stop you from speaking any more.”

She huffs. “Fine, but do not fault me for pushing. You’ve grown complacent, and it does not become you. You have everything and yet you have nothing, but you could just have everything. You are more than just your title, Loki, prince of Asgard.”

Before Loki can reply, Amora turns on her heel and leaves with a flip of her shimmering hair.

Loki sighs and slips from the hall and into the gardens as soon as she is out of view. Golden orbs light the curated paths, so Loki sticks to the shadows until the voices and music are a whisper on the wind. The small clearing he finds himself in is walled off by vines and rose bushes in full bloom. Loki drops to the grass and lays on his back to stare up at the stars. 

Perhaps Amora is right and the stagnation he feels is why his _seidr_ is restless. He is a child no longer, and yet his days are still filled with a planned tedium that stifles him. Thor is reigned in, as well, but the difference is that he’s comfortable with it. Power rests at his feet, ripe for the taking, while Loki sits in the shadows and waits, but for what? What future does Asgard hold for him? 

No one wishes to say it aloud except for Loki and sometimes Thor, when his brother is feeling particularly kingly, but Loki has never quite fit in here. There is too much bite to his brand of everything. Study, prank, fighting style, magic, it doesn’t matter. It all paints him the same: sharp in a way that goes over heads and could stab someone in the back, if care wasn't taken. His only ally is his mother, who has always fanned the flames of his cleverness, but even the All-Mother has limitations. 

So then what is there here for Loki? He is slated to be Thor’s advisor. Who can say if the idiot will even listen to him. They are both aware that Loki is the smarter of the two, but that doesn’t stop Thor from huffing his displeasure if he doesn’t agree with any of Loki’s recommendations. 

Brilliant tactician. Expert mage. Intelligent and cunning and clever and still, never enough. 

“Will it ever be enough?” he murmurs up to the cosmos, which flicker balefully. “Will I ever be enough?”

As if in response, his _seidr_ rises without rhyme or reason or warning. Loki sits up, his breath caught in his chest as it surges through him like the high tide until his body is bursting with it. His fingers dig into the cool earth, trying to find purchase, but before he can ground himself, it’s over as quickly as it started. 

He hunches over, hair spilling into his face, and shudders out a breath. His heart pounds but for the first time in days, maybe even weeks, his _seidr_ rests— truly rests. 

Something else is wrong, though. Loki feels it like a brand, so he slowly raises his shaking left hand where the searing pain is cooling. 

There is a filament wrapped around the base of his ring finger and it shimmers like silk in sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since these chapters are shorter, I'm hoping to post twice a week. Hopefully I can keep up. :D


	3. Three

The string doesn’t change until the palladium poisoning gets out of control, and then it turns black, too, starting from where it’s wrapped around his finger and inching down the length. Tony doesn’t know why, but it sets him even more on edge than the palladium poisoning itself, and he’s an anxious, nihilistic mess by the time his birthday comes around.

Honestly, considering it’s probably his last birthday, it goes better than he expected even if it goes terribly. 

The next morning, Tony sits, head swimming from a spectacular hangover, on top of a doughnut shop and in the large doughnut decoration, an open box on his lap. He reaches in and pulls out another doughnut (he’s already eaten three), surveying the pink icing before he takes a large bite. 

His chest is hot and uncomfortable beneath his suit, and after the amount of time he spent in the suit last night, he can tell without looking or asking JARVIS that the lacework of black has started to inch up his neck. It’s a very particular sensation, palladium poisoning. It doesn’t hurt, per say, but it does burn, in a way. A constant, persistent, sharp heat that singes from the inside out. 

He focuses on the sweet, cakey pastry as the glaze melts on his tongue and not on the string. 

“Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to exit the doughnut.”

Tony glances over the edge of the roof. Nick Fury stands there in his black-clad glory, glaring up at Tony with his one, disappointed eye, his duster billowing in the breeze. 

Slowly Tony makes his way down. His head is throbbing and he’s sweating, but he gets there, and then he’s sitting inside the actual doughnut shop with Nick Fury across from him. 

“I told you, I don’t want to join your super-secret boyband.”

Fury looks like he’s trying not to roll his eye. “No, of course not. I remember, you do everything yourself. Tell me, how’s that working out for you?”

“It’s… it’s…” Tony leans forward, squinting, ignoring the strange way the burning zings up his neck. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot. Should I look at the patch or the eye?”

Fury doesn’t blink, just stares at him with open and honest distaste. 

Tony shrugs. He’s used to that expression and revels in it, to an extent. He had no plans to make friends today, especially with the head of SHIELD, of all people. “Honestly, I’m a bit hungover. I’m not even sure if you’re real or if I’m having—“ 

“I am very real,” Fury says, stare intensifying. “I’m the realest person you’re ever gonna meet.”

Tony glances at the blackened thread looped around his finger that no one else sees. His definition of real has changed a lot since he woke up in Afganistan. He doesn’t say that to Fury. He doesn’t say it to anyone, ever, because the string may not be real to them, but it’s real to him, and it’s real to whoever or whatever is on the other end of it. And somehow, Tony knows there’s something on the other end. At night, when he lays motionless, he can feel the very subtle vibrations and he knows. 

So, real. He’s not sure what real means, if anything, to him anymore. 

“Just my luck,” he says cheerfully instead. 

***

Natalie Rushman is actually a SHIELD agent (this is why he doesn’t make friends), and Tony’s put under house arrest after she stabs him in the neck with a syringe, and he’s mad but he can’t be too mad because whatever’s in it makes the burning recede until he can come up with a different way to power the arc reactor so he doesn’t kill himself. 

He tries to sleep, because he hasn’t slept in days, but he dreams of falling and wakes in a cold sweat instead, feeling displaced and terrified and alone. Usually he dreams of the desert and wakes feeling displaced and terrified and alone, so this is not only new, but a lot worse. Something about the complete and utter blackness enveloping him like a cold, catastrophic embrace strikes a chord in him. 

He doesn’t try to sleep again, just gets to work. 

His combs through his father’s papers and schematics and finds a video. Tony watches it, his heart pitter-pattering behind the reactor. _I built this for you_ , Howard says, staring earnestly into the camera. You will change the world. What is, and always will be, my greatest creation... is you.

Tony stares at the screen with something like acid crawling its way up his throat. It's bullshit, some performative father-figuring, because Tony doesn’t remember a Howard even remotely like that. But he has to admit, albeit begrudgingly, that Howard was good for something, because Tony comes out of his pile of papers with a shiny new element that he can substitute into a new reactor. When he slots it in, the jolt that courses through him feels like Christmas. 

The latticework of black poison recedes until all that remains are the mottled scars around the reactor. 

The thread takes a while, but by the time Vanko is dealt with and Hammer is in jail, the black has receded and Tony’s left with a gold filament that glitters like a promise. Tony stares at it often and wishes he could tug, dragging whatever or whoever it is across space or time or whatever to stand in front of him. Something inside of him needs whatever’s on the other side more fiercely now than before, and he can’t say why, but as he reads Fury’s report about himself — compulsive behavior, prone to self-destructive tendencies, textbook narcissism — he grins because they’re supposed to be insults and yet Tony knows he’s tied to something else that’s meant for him exactly as he is. 

Except it doesn’t stay gold for long. One night, after another dream of falling into an endless blackness, Tony wakes and finds the gold hue breaking down until it bleeds a beautiful, cerulean blue. 

Tony doesn’t know why, but he knows it’s an omen.


	4. Four

Once, long ago, all were Threaded to another. It was Fate, a perfect match painstakingly handcrafted by the Norns, and while the threads could stretch and tangle and fall slack, they never broke. 

Over time, however, the phenomenon faded. No one, not even Frigga, who is an old friend of the Threads and can read them more fluently than most, could say why. It just happened, slowly but with purpose. The threads disappeared completely in some realms and became an incredibly rare occurrence in others until it was weaved into the stories parents told their children. 

Loki stares at his thread and doesn’t know what to do with it. 

There is a part of him that is thrilled. Such a rare thing, and the Norns have bestowed the blessing upon him. Not upon Thor, but Loki, the second son. It means there is another, somewhere in the Nine, that can match him in a way none have been able to thus far, and Loki yearns for that more than anything.

And yet there is a part of him that is furious. He is bound already in so many ways — by his title, by his magic, by his father and brother and the court and their expectations for who he should and should not be — and now he is tied to another. 

It takes him some time before he goes to Frigga and holds up his hand with a look of utter exhaustion. 

“I was wondering when you would come to me,” she says with a knowing smile and sets down her book. “Come closer, let me look upon it.”

“So you have known,” Loki mutters as he approaches and sits beside her on the bench, allowing her to take his hand.

She tuts. “Of course I’ve known.” 

“And you said nothing.”

“It was not for me to say.” She brushes her fingertips over the base of his ring finger, her smile softening. “It has been a very long time since I’ve seen one Threaded. Centuries, in fact. I wondered if the Norns would grace our halls with such a blessing during my lifetime, and I am glad to see the blessing has fallen to you.”

“I don’t know if I share the same excitement,” Loki admits with a sigh. “I do not like the idea of being tied to another in such a way.”

Frigga cups his hand in both of hers and waits for him to make eye contact. “That’s the beauty of this kind of bond, Loki. It is not meant to hinder you, but to provide you with one who will help catalyze your full potential.”

He can’t stop the way his upper lip curls. “Meaning the Norns do not think I can reach my full potential myself.” 

Frigga raises a brow. “We all need help, now and then.”

Loki pulls his hand away. “And my help must come predestined from the Norns. What does that say about me? What does that make me?”

“It is a gift, Loki,” his mother sighs. “You may not understand now, but you will. I promise you that.”

A gift, she says, but then the thread begins to blacken and it feels more like an omen. The color leeches through it slowly, and then more quickly, until there are mere inches of gold left where it wraps around his finger. 

Everything crumbles from there. 

Thor is not ready, but he is nearly crowned anyway, except the coronation is halted by an attack from Jotunheim as the Frost Giants attempt to reclaim the Casket of Ancient Winters, stolen from them long ago. Odin orders Thor to overlook it, but Thor is not ready to do that, either, and Loki finds himself with his brother, the Lady Sif, and the Warriors Three on the cold, icy shores of Jotunheim by the grace of Heimdall because _nothing makes sense._

They are bound to fail, but Thor will not see it, and nothing Loki or the others say will sway his brother’s hand. Violence begets violence, and then they are slaughtering towering blue giants, blood spattering the obsidian ice. 

They are saved from Thor’s brutishness by Odin, who arrives before they are killed but not before a Frost Giants wraps a hand around Loki’s wrist and they both watch, stricken, as his pale skin deepens to a lovely blue. 

Loki stabs him through the stomach, heart thudding in his chest like an entire brigade of horses. 

Later, once they have been whisked back to Asgard and Odin has cast Thor out and to Midgard, stripped of his powers so that he may learn humility and worth, Loki sneaks into the vault and grabs hold of the Casket of Ancient Winters. 

“Am I cursed?” he asks Odin when his father arrives. 

“No,” the All-Father replies. “Put the Casket down.”

Loki does and turns to his father. Even though he can only see his hands, he can tell by the chill enveloping him that the blue has spread across the entirety of his person. The thread is also completely black, now, and it cannot be a coincidence. Black and corrupted, like Loki.

“What am I?”

Odin stares at him. “You are my son.” 

“What more than that?” Loki demands, and when his father does not reply, Loki takes a step forward and snarls, “The Casket was not the only thing you took from Jotunheim that day, was it?”

“No,” Odin says, finally looking him in the eye. 

The words pour out of Loki’s mouth from there. Words like stolen relics, and monster, and blood, and favor.

Love. 

How _stupid_ he has been. 

Though his skin has returned to what he has known his entire life, the thread does not brighten. It remains dark, a haunting reminder of what Odin’s Aesir glamor cannot hide from him any longer. 

Odin crumbles to the ground, taken by the Odinsleep, and Loki sits upon the throne even though the bitterness and rage poisons him. He is not angry at Thor, but he would ruin him all the same, just as Loki has been ruined. He would ruin everything, and he can, without taking heed. There are none to stop him. No father, no brother, no Thread bonded because he has tainted that, too. 

Perhaps he takes it too far. Perhaps not far enough. 

Thor returns and Odin wakes, but most importantly, Jotunheim and his corrupted legacy as the Prince of the Frost Giants still stands. 

“I could have done it, father!” he says, his voice cracking with unshed tears as Odin grips Thor’s leg, preventing them from both tumbling into the dark depths of space. “I could have done it for you! For all of us!”

“No, Loki,” Odin replies, nothing in his expression but regret. 

Thor must see it in his face before Loki knows he will do it, because he screams Loki’s name. Loki doesn’t look at him, just tears his gaze from Odin to study the still blackened thread looped around his finger. 

He lets go, and he falls.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad you're all enjoying this so far! ^^

The string doesn’t change again, and after a while, it becomes so commonplace that Tony can easily ignore the fact that it’s likely connected to something else until he lands in a German square next to Captain America and finds the other end wrapped around the finger of the dark-haired man in leather and gold horns that he blasted with his repulsors literal seconds ago. 

“Make your move, Reindeer Games,” he says and tries to play it cool, but his heart is beating so fast and hard he can feel it in all of his pulse points and he can’t look away so he keeps the faceplate down. The string is wrapped delicately around the man’s ring finger on his left hand, just like Tony’s. There is no slack, just a taut line connecting the two of them. Tony feels both giddy and sick to his stomach. 

He also notices that the man’s eyes are the same brilliant blue as the thread.

The horns and some of the leather shimmer and disappear. The man— Loki, he called himself, like the fucking Norse god— raises his hands in a sign of surrender even though there’s a strange quirk to his lips, like he’s having the grandest time, and he continues watching them, but he doesn’t even so much as glance at his hand. 

Tony swallows down the lump in his throat. “Good move.”

Captain America gives a curt nod. “Mr. Stark,” he says tightly.

Tony can’t muster more than a bland: “Captain.” 

On the jet, he finally takes off his helmet. Loki glances at him and their eyes lock, and the breath stalls in Tony’s chest, but the look doesn’t linger. Apparently other parts of the jet are more interesting than the man connected to him by some magical, color-changing mood string. 

Tony clenches his fists and tries not to freak out with lesser degree of success than he’d like. He’s gone this long without knowing anything about the string or what it meant. He’s basically ignored it the last several months because he had no other options. No number of tests or research could tell him a damned thing, so why waste the energy? 

He can do this. He’s done it before. He can push it to the back of his mind and focus on the immediate issue until he can get information without SHIELD and it’s lackeys looming over him. 

“I don’t like it,” Captain America says, interrupting his thoughts.

“What? Rock of Ages giving up so easily?” Tony replies, still watching Loki.

“I don’t remember it ever being that easy.” The Captain watches their transportee, as well, his eyebrows furrowed. “This guy packs a wallop.”

Tony agrees, but he has no intention of admitting it. He’s struggling too much with the wallop sitting at the back of the jet ignoring the brightly-glowing link between them, and he’s also kind of pissed that Loki _can_ ignore it with such ease when Tony’s fighting and _losing_ the same uphill battle.

And that’s not even considering the fact that Steve Rogers, childhood hero turned the reason his father could never spare him more than a second, is standing next to him. Tony’s feelings about it are muddled together into something poignantly bitter and he hates it. Hates Steve Rogers. Hates his father. Hates himself, a little bit, because he’s supposed to be better than this but he isn’t. 

So, he could say something else, but instead, he says, “Still, you are pretty spry, for an older fellow. What's your thing? Pilates?”

The Captain blinks. “What?”

Tony’s smile is merciless. “It's like calisthenics. You might have missed a couple things, you know, during your time as a Capsicle.”

Steve levels him with a look, and Tony thinks, Jackpot! He’d expected it would take more to ruffle this living legend’s feathers. Apparently not. 

“Fury didn't tell me he was calling you in,” he replies levelly. 

Tony just snorts. “Yeah, there's a lot of things Fury doesn't tell you.”

Before the Captain can reply, the jet shakes, and immediately after, lightning flashes and thunder rumbles, leaving the drumming of raindrops behind. 

From the front of the jet, Tony hears Natalie-Natasha-whatever mutter, “Where's this coming from?”

Steve immediately focuses his attention on Loki. “What's the matter? Scared of a little lightning?”

Tony rolls his eyes.

Loki doesn’t look at them. He just continues glancing around, a somewhat tense expression on his previously passive face. Surprisingly, he admits, “I’m not overly fond of what follows.”

What follows is a blinding flash of light, and then the hatch at the back of the jet is yanked open and there’s a blonde man with long hair, aflowing red cape, a fucking hammer, and a thunderous look contorting his face. 

It all happens fast. He’s on Loki in a second, his hand around the other’s throat. Tony briefly sees a look of fear flash across Loki’s face before he’s dragged out of the plane.

Something courses through Tony. He isn’t sure what it is, but what he can pinpoint is blinding anger mixed with a visceral loss. He stopped giving a shit about the string the last year because he couldn’t keep hanging on to the idea that something meaningful was on the other end, but now he knows there is something. Someone. Tony’s already lost too much, and he refuses to lose this, too. Not before he know what it means. 

“Another Asgardian?” Natasha calls from the front of the plane, her voice muffled by the wind and the rain.

“Think the guy’s a friendly?” Steve asks.

Tony offers him a dispassionate look before he grabs his helmet. “It doesn’t matter. I— we need Loki alive, otherwise the Tesseract’s lost.” 

Steve takes a step forward, following Tony towards the ramp. “Stark, we need a plan!”

“I have a plan,” Tony says, even though he doesn’t, not really. “Attack.”

And then he’s off the jet, chasing after two magically-charged beings.

It takes Tony a few minutes to catch up to them because holy shit, blondie is fast, but when he does, he doesn’t even second-guess crashing straight into him, sending them careening through some trees and leaving Loki behind. 

They both climb to their feet, and Tony allows his faceplate to pull up. The other man looks positively furious, and above them, the clouds thicken and swirl. Interesting. Tony files it away for later. 

“Do not touch me again,” the Asgardian growls.

Tony raises a brow. “Then don’t take my stuff.” 

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with!”

“But it’s _mine_ to deal with,” Tony retorts, and the man gives him a strange look, so he redirects by adding, “Tell me, what’s the Shakespeare in the Park thing all about? Doth mother know you weareth her drapes?”

He sneers. “This is beyond you, metal man. Loki will face Asgardian justice.”

“Not before he answers to me first!” Tony snaps, his left hand curling into a fist.

The other man’s eyebrows raise, and he studies Tony with an unnerving intensity. “What is Loki to you? This is more than just about the Tesseract.”

“It’s none of your goddamned business,” Tony replies cheerily, then turns around, faceplate going up, and starts to walk back towards Loki.

And then he’s hit in the back so hard he goes flying across the clearing, straight into a tree.

“Okay, then,” he snarls. “Have it your way.” 

The other guy is strong. Like, really strong. Tony’s lucky that his suit seems to like the lightning that crackles around the hammer and charges his unibeam up to 400% in seconds. They keep going, and Tony’s pretty sure blondie has something riding on Loki, too, because there is no hesitation and an almost desperate need to win, and it’s not until the Captain’s shield flies into the clearing and ricochets off both of them that they finally take a breath. 

“That’s enough!” Steve shouts, appearing in the clearing. “Now, I don’t know what you’re doing here—“

“I’m here to put an end to Loki’s schemes!” the Asgardian snaps. 

Tony glances at his left hand. _Schemes._ He really hopes this isn’t a scheme. 

When he looks up, blondie is looking at him strangely again, and Tony doesn’t miss the way his gaze flickers to Tony’s hand.

What the _fuck._

“Then prove it!” Steve replies, completely oblivious. “Put the hammer down.”

Well, Tony wanted a distraction, and he’s got it, because he sees the way the man’s expression darkens. 

“Um, yeah, no. Bad call! He loves his hammer!”

“You want me to put the hammer down?” the man bellows, then leaps up high into the air. The Captain immediately crouches and brings the shield above his head. 

When the hammer meets the shield, there’s a flash of blinding white light and an almost ethereal sound Tony couldn’t describe if he tried. The resulting shockwave sends him flying and his ears ring so loud it makes him feel sick. 

Tony climbs to his feet. The Captain is sprawled next to him, and he’s conscious, but he moves more slowly, his lips twisted in a combination of scowl and pain. Around them, the trees have been decimated by the burst of energy, some completely ripped from the ground and dirt still falling off of their gnarled roots. 

The Asgardian stands there unharmed and looking slightly… sheepish? 

“Are we done here?” Steve grunts as he finally climbs to his feet. 

Turns out they are. 

They reconvene with Loki, who just stays where Tony and blondie— Thor, he introduced himself as, Jesus fucking Christ it really is a Norse god thing — left him. Just standing there, smiling blandly, his eyes shimmering that strange blue and his gaze never once straying to his or Tony’s hand.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I'll update twice a week, I think!  
> Narrator: She thought wrong. 
> 
> Sorry for the delay, all! Life, ah, finds a way... to be a giant pain in the arse. I am going to continue to try to update weekly, but I appreciate patience you muster if my posts take a bit longer. :D

Loki feels something trickle through him when the man in the metal suit lands in the square, and it isn’t just the sting from whatever energy blasted him in the chest. He hasn’t felt anything except for fury and pain since falling through the void and into the hands of the Mad Titan, so he struggles to hold onto the feeling. His mind is not his own, not completely, and everything feels so numb, but the sensation is pervasive, and his mind rebels against the magic coursing through the staff that also courses through him and keeps him tethered to the Mad Titan’s servants. 

Even as he grasps onto the sensation for dear life, he avoids the dark eyes of the Midgardian inside of the suit— Stark, he hears him called— but it’s difficult because he can sense the man’s gaze on him. He doesn't want to give himself away, though, nor can he risk it. Not now. 

He manages until the thunder starts. 

It was expected, of course. The Other did many things to prepare him for this task, but hiding his _seidr_ wasn’t one of them (even if it has been reigned in quite neatly, so to keep him in line), and Heimdall is ever vigilant. It was only a matter of time before Thor was told of his presence on Midgard. 

“What’s the matter?” the Captain says, an almost-deprecating edge to his voice that reminds Loki so much of Thor and his belligerent friends that he must force himself not to snarl. “Afraid of a little lightening?”

“I’m not overly fond of what follows,” Loki replies darkly instead. 

Thor arrives in a flurry of lightning and rain, the winds whipping around him as the storm shakes the jet. Loki can tell that he has changed in the months since their vicious separation, but not nearly as much as Loki has. There is no madness grasping at him, no nightmares waiting to spring to life the moment he closes his eyes. 

Loki expects to only feel rage, and he does feel that, so much so that he's almost drowning in it, but what actually knocks him breathless is the sudden wave of loneliness and devastation that joins it. 

Thor, of course, only looks furious and disappointed in a way that reminds Loki of the All-Father. He crushes the loneliness and devastation down. Thor does not deserve it. 

When the Thunderer stalks towards him, Mjolnir crackling, and grabs him by the neck, Loki finally gives in. 

Stark stares at him with a strange mixture of longing and confusion contorting his face, and for a moment, there is a flash of blue shimmering in his peripheral vision with a memory tugging at his mind, but it’s fleeting, so painfully, frustratingly fleeting, and before he can even attempt to extricate it from the staff's influence and the Other's persistent presence, Thor launches them into the raging storm. 

It feels like falling, and even though he’s done it before, he hates every second of it. 

Once he’s on land, after he hurtles sharp retorts and condescension at Thor’s angry, sad, pleading, pitiful face, Loki focuses on Stark, who approaches the Thunderer head on — literally. The Midgardian is flippant and emotional and clever with his words and Loki doesn’t know why he can’t look away because every ounce of the staff and the Other’s control screams at him to focus until his ears ring and his head aches. 

Instead, he hones in on the bright blue light that burns like a beacon in the darkened forest. 

He regrets it, of course, by the time they reach a large ship and toss Loki into a glass cag. This was the plan all along, of course, and yet something feels suddenly _wrong,_ but Loki has no time to parse through it because Nick Fury wastes no time visiting him.

“In case it's unclear,” he says and hits a button, which opens up a hatch beneath the glass cage to reveal clouds. “You try to escape, you so much as scratch that glass, thirty thousand feet, straight down in a steel trap. You get how that works?”

Loki looks down and smirks. As if that fall could even come close to measuring up to those he has already suffered, but that is none of this man's business. “It's an impressive cage. Not built, I think, for me.”

Fury’s single eye narrows. “Built for something a lot stronger than you.”

“Oh, I've heard,” Loki croons. “The mindless beast makes play he's still a man. How desperate are you, that you call upon such lost creatures to defend you?”

That ignites something in Fury. “How desperate am I? You threaten my world with war. You steal a force you can't hope to control. You talk about peace and you kill `cause it's fun. You have made me very desperate. You might not be glad that you did.”

Even though his mind is struggling to stay focused with thoughts of Stark still tugging at the edges and battling the Other's control, Loki smiles at the admittance of desperation because he is glad to not be the only one. “Oh, it burns you to come so close. To have the Tesseract, to have power, unlimited power. And for what? A warm light for all mankind to share, and then to be reminded what real power is.

Fury turns and starts walking out of the room. “Well, you let me know if Real Power wants a magazine or something.”

Loki leans back agains the glass, the smile falling from his face the moment Fury it out of the room. Real power. He spoke the words first, but they feel tainted now, tinged with the callous disregard. 

Callous disregard. This is his boon. His birthright. Constant dismissal and denigration from eye-patched patriarchs who lust for control and power and try to play it off as care and consideration.

_If only Thanos had an eyepatch, the pattern would be unbreakable_ , Loki thinks darkly. 

He is still lost in thought when Stark enters the room. 

“So,” Stark says without preamble, arms crossed over his chest, “what is this, exactly?” 

That sensation is back, itching beneath his skin. Loki grits his teeth and stares back at Stark, who studies him keenly, and he realizes for the first time since laying eyes on the Midgardian that the strange feeling rushing to the surface despite the scepter and the Other’s control is his _seidr_. Loki has accessed his own magic only briefly and weakly since his fall from the Bifrost because it has been leashed by the Other, but it responds now, thrumming against whatever has tried to silence it.

The Midgardian’s nostrils flare. “C’mon, don’t keep giving me that silent treatment bullshit. It’s connected to you, somehow, and I want to know why.”

“I know not of what you speak,” Loki replies, surprising himself with how calm and collected he sounds even though he feels like he _should know_ what the Stark is talking about, but there is a gaping void where the information should be, looming and mocking in it’s breadth. 

Stark rolls his eyes, and Loki is fascinated by how expressive his face is. “Yes, you do. Don’t play coy with me, Professor Snape. I want to know what it is, I want to know why it’s connected to you, and I want to know _now_.”

Loki forces a smirk while internally counting down the time until Barton blows a hole in the hull of the ship. “And yet I cannot give you what you desire because I do not know what connection you speak of.” 

“There is a string here,” Stark says, holding up his left hand and pointing at it with his right index finger. His dark eyes flash dangerously. “It appeared a few years ago, wrapped around my finger, and earlier today, I found out you’re on the other end of it.”

Loki blanches and time seems to rush to a sickening stop. “What?”

“You’re telling me you can’t see it?” Stark demands and steps closer to the glass. 

Loki’s _seidr_ sings beneath his skin, but his heart beats violently in his chest, so much so that he has trouble taking in a full breath. “It was destroyed,” he says, strained. 

The anger washes away from Stark’s face and is replaced by a calculative somberness. “No, it’s definitely still here.”

Loki licks at his lips. The hooks the Other has in his mind tug painfully, demanding an audience, but Loki forces them away. “The Thread blackened and then I fell—” 

Stark grimaces and interrupts him. “It’s blue now. It was black, but it’s been blue for a while." Loki's eyes widen. "What?" Stark barrels on. "Also, what do you mean you fell? When did you fall? Because I've had some really shitty nightmares, and heights is definitely not something I've ever been afraid of, so it's got to be you, right? Why? What the fuck is going on?” He pauses and then says, with intensity, “Who _are_ you?”

Loki flexes his left hand but refuses to look at it, already overwhelmed by the sensations in his head and chest and beneath his skin as they rebel against the other. Anger is there, too, ready to boil over. “I do not understand,” he hisses, more to himself than to Stark. 

“Help me try to understand.” Stark is at the glass now, inches from it, and even through the barrier, Loki can feel the invasive presence of the thrum increase. 

And then they’re both thrown sideways as an explosion wracks the ship.


	7. Seven

There’s a particularly frantic, chaotic need emanating from Loki and his dark, furrowed brows that draws Tony in like a black hole before something explodes and drags him back down to Earth. 

Tony barely catches himself and swears under his breath. Loki does the same, palms thudding against the glass as he stumbles and braces himself. He looks up and finds Loki staring at him, his blue eyes wide, and then realizes their left palms are all but lined up perfectly, separated by glass that doesn’t stop the string or the strange energy that’s zipping up and down it. He isn’t sure if Loki can see the string, but he knows he can _feel it_ the same way Tony does. 

So close, he thinks, gritting his teeth. So close to figuring out what the fuck is going on. It’s a loose end, and Tony doesn’t like loose ends. Loose ends mean father-figures who steal the heart right out of your chest and leave you to die a slow and painful death, or psychotic Russians with arc-powered whips who try to slash your entire life to pieces. Loki is _absolutely_ Loose End material. It’s almost text-book. 

“Stark,” Loki murmurs, his voice low and thick. 

Except they can’t tie this up now. Tony has no idea what’s happening or what exploded, and he can’t be sure the explosion didn’t knock out the feed he’d looped on the security cameras so the other’s wouldn’t know he was there. He is not willing to share this, no matter how it affects things. This is _his._

“Well, that’s my cue to leave, but we’re not finished by a long shot, Reindeer Games,” Tony says, his words laden with intent. 

Loki licks at his lips, his gaze unwavering. “I think perhaps you are right.” 

Tony doesn’t look back even though he can feel the string making length for the space in between them, an annoying, subtle tug at the base of his ring finger that feels like loss. 

***

It’s all a fucking shit show, really. 

They’re scrambling to keep the hellicarrier in the air after one of the engines is damaged. Bruce hulks out and smashes things, including Natalie-Natasha-whatever, and then Natalie-Natasha-whatever smashes Clint Barton’s head against a railing and somehow _that works_. Now Bruce is MIA, and so is Thor, and surprise, so are Loki and his glass cage. 

Tony doesn’t think it could get worse, because seriously, how? And then Fury tosses some bloodied Captain America cards on a briefing room table. 

It’s a peculiar feeling, this kind of loss. Phil Coulson wasn’t anything to him, not really, just a blip in the radar, but it still hurts in a raw and sharp kind of way, especially knowing Loki was the one to put the hole in Phil's chest. Tony rubs the base of his ring finger, feels the energy of it against his fingertips, and wonders what the fuck they’re supposed to do now. What is _he_ supposed to do? He’s jammed between a rock and a hard place, and it’s just… not looking good. 

It’s during a particularly snappish argument with Steve Rogers that he finally figures it out.

Of fucking course Loki would be planning his final act on Stark Tower. Of course. 

As he flies ahead of the quinjet that’s shuttling Natasha, Clint, and Cap towards the building that has his name in lights, Tony knows he should be coming up with a plan, but all he can do is wonder what will happen to the string if he fails and they’re forced to kill Loki. 

***

He gets to the Tower before the others. Selvig is on the roof, smiling like he doesn’t have a care in the world, the Tesseract slotted into a device that’s surrounded by a barrier of arc reactor energy. JARVIS turns off the reactor powering the Tower, but Tony already knows it’s too late by the way the energy continues to build. He shoots his repulsor at it anyway, both to be sure and because why the fuck not, and the shot ricochets back at him with alarming intensity. 

“It’s pure energy,” JARVIS states. “It’s unbreachable.”

“Fine,” Tony sighs, and then he spots Loki on the roof, gazing up at him as he walks towards the doors that lead inside. “Next idea. I need the Mark VII”

“It is not yet ready to be deployed, Sir.”

“Well, then skips the spinning rims, we’re on the clock. Tall, dark, and murderous is here visiting.”

They only break eye contact when Tony’s automated system removes his armor, and Loki stares at him in a way that has his blood pressure up. It’s a mixture of hunger and fury and desperation, none of which he looks like he has complete control of, and Tony wishes they’d had more time to figure shit out on the hellicarrier. 

He’s inside and striding to the bar when Loki enters. The dark circles under his eyes are darker, and the scepter gleams in the sunlight that filters in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. 

“So, will you appeal to my humanity?” Loki asks goodnaturedly as he saunters forward, but there’s no mistaking the tension. 

“You’ve got the Glowstick of Destiny back, I see,” Tony comments and sees Loki’s cocksure facade falter for a second. “Do you want a drink?”

Loki tilts his head to the side, a strange quirk pulling on his lips. “Stalling me won’t change anything.”

“I’m not stalling. I’m drinking. I’m gonna pour myself one. Are you sure you don’t want in?” 

“The Chitauri are coming. Nothing can stop that.”

Tony levels him with a stare. “Fuck the Chitauri. I don’t care. We’ll deal with that later.” 

The smirk falls away and Loki’s eyes narrow, but nothing can blot out that blue. 

“We’ve got more important things to deal with. Like this.” He holds up his left hand. The string glimmers in the light, taut because of their proximity. “Let’s talk more about this. What did you call it? A thread? Is that with a capital T?”

“Stark,” Loki growls, haughty ambiance immediately replaced with _feral_ and _afraid_.

“Drop the scepter,” Tony demands, slamming both hands on the counter. The ice rattles inside the glass. “I’m pretty sure that’s what’s turned our friendship bracelet blue. It’s glowing the same pretty color as your eyes.”

Loki bares his teeth, nostrils flaring. His hand tightens around the scepter, knuckles bone white. “I have no time for your tricks, and even if I did, it would not matter. The Chitauri are coming, and Midgard will be mine.”

Tony sighs. He’s not going to be able to get through to Loki like this, not with the scepter scrambling his brain, and they don’t have time for him to play coy. He doesn’t know what the Chitauri are, but they can’t be good, and he can still hear the hum of the device on his roof. 

_Desperate times call for desperate measures_ , he thinks and finishes pouring himself a hefty few fingers of scotch, then slips his Mack VII honing bracers onto his wrists. “Well, we can’t let that happen.”

Loki snorts. “And what in this pitiful realm could stop them or me?”

Tony offers him a dazzling smile. “The Avengers.” When Loki just blinks, unimpressed, he continues, “It’s what we call ourselves. You know, like a team. Earth’s Mightiest Heroes kind of thing.”

“Oh, yes,” Loki replies, smug smirk back in place. “I’ve met them.”

“It does take us a while to gain any sort of traction, I’ll give you that.” Tony takes a sip of his scotch, relishing the burn on his tongue, then downs the remainder of the glass in one fell swoop and sets it down before he steps around the bar and towards Loki. “But you’re missing the point. There is no throne. There is no version of this where you come out on top. Maybe your army comes, and maybe it’s too much for us, but it’s all on you. Because if we can’t protect the Earth, you can be damned sure we’ll avenge it.”

Loki takes a step towards him, and then another step, slowly raising the scepter. He watches Tony with such a smoldering intensity that it exacerbates the warmth of the scotch coursing through him. Tony tries not to let his anxiety show, tries to keep his breath steady and reminds himself that he’s _pretty sure_ this is going to work, but by the way Loki’s lips curve at the corners, he doesn’t think he’s particularly successful. 

“How will your friends have time for me,” Loki croons, a foot away from him now, “when they’re so busy fighting you?”

He tilts the scepter forward, bridging the gap between them. The curved tip of it touches the arc reactor with a clear, dainty _clink_ , and for a moment, nothing happens.

And then the light emanating from the string flares ever so slightly, and the blue in Loki’s eyes flickers and breaks apart, revealing a bright, verdant green.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sooooo late and I am so sorry! I will try not to have weeks between this and my next update!

Loki loses time between the ship and arriving at Stark Tower.

There are snippets that come back to him as he walks the length of the roof, his eyes locked on Stark’s form as his machines take his suit apart, piece by piece. He remembers Stark’s dark eyes, wide and determined, and a hum beneath his own skin. He remembers an explosion and Thor, falling for the same bloody trick he’d always fallen for. He remembers blood, and then pain, too, a sharp tugging at his mind until everything else fades and all he can focus on is the persistent ringing in his ears— 

And then he is standing across from Stark, who makes himself a drink, so flippant and collected despite his pulse beating visibly and quickly in his neck. It reminds Loki of himself: always hiding behind a facade of expectation, behind a strength to mask his fear.

Stark talks, but his words are like static. Loki struggles to make complete sense of them and they drift through his mind, unable to gain purchase. He wants to fight it because a part of him, the small, insignificant part of him still managing to maintain control, has a burning need to understand, but he can’t, not with the scepter in hand. Not while it suffocates him. 

That is, until the Midgardian asks, “What did you call it? A thread? Is that with a capital T?”

The Thread, his mind supplies desperately, trying to grab hold and rip the thought out from the fog that has weighed everything down, but the fog is so dense and from the dark depths, the Other’s voice snarls threats and demands supplication. 

Loki grits his teeth and plasters a smirk on his face, just as desperate to seem in control while under scrutiny of this man who looks over him as if he is trying to solve the realm’s most complex puzzle. 

If he wasn’t so furious and numb and desperate, he would probably preen beneath such an insinuated compliment.

Accept when Stark approaches him, Loki’s own pulse quickens. The man holds his chin up in defiance, hands flexing and curling into fists at his sides. He is angry and alive and just the slightest bit desperate, too. Inexplicably, Loki wants to touch, to devour, to take, and the intensity rattles the fog. 

When the scepter clicks against Stark’s chest, the sound of metal on metal surprises Loki. He hadn’t noticed this before, but the same pattern of blue light that brightens the center of Stark’s ridiculous metal suit also burns through his shirt, and he can feel it now, the energy that radiates off of him in waves. 

That is not the only thing that throws him off kilter, however. Stark’s dark eyes remain unchanged despite the scepter’s touch, but Loki feels something within himself shift with a suddenness that punches the breath from his lungs. Energy that should be infiltrating Stark’s mind seems to reverberate backwards and break apart, and Stark must see or sense it, because his expression shifts to surprise, and Loki grits his teeth against the strange, overwhelming and sudden sensation that he recognizes as his _seidr_ struggling to break free after so much silence. 

“Your eyes,” Stark says dumbly, blinking up at him, but then something like understanding lights up his face. 

Loki feels a desperate kind of fury mount inside of him without precedence because he is _so very tired_ of being left out of everyone’s plans and ploys. Of being abandoned in the dark, figuratively and literally, alone and desolate and rotting in despair that even he does not fully understand. He wants to tear everything down until he can visualize the bare bones, until it all _makes sense_ , because nothing does. Fate has robbed him of everything and even his seidr must struggle rip free, and here is Stark, putting the pieces together even as Loki fails to grasp and hold. 

The anger is still burning hot when Stark suddenly reaches for his left hand, which grips the scepter.

His right hand is around Stark’s throat before either of them realize it’s happened, tight enough that the Midgardian rasps out a startled breath, his pulse thudding like a drum beneath Loki’s palm. 

The air around them changes immediately upon skin to skin contact. The heaviness he’d been immersed in it for so long lifts, and the sudden, unexpected release is enough to drop him to his knees. He drops the scepter and it clatters to the floor, as well, sliding several feet away. Stark follows, mouth open in surprise and pupils dilated, but he doesn’t let go of Loki’s hand even though Loki still has him by the throat. If anything, he holds on tighter, his expression morphing into a mixture of awe and fear. 

“What have you done to me?” Loki hisses, trying to concentrate on Stark’s expressive face even as his _seidr_ envelopes him in an embrace of energy so unlike the invasive, oppression weight of the scepter’s magic. Except something is different. Something _feels_ different than he remembers. 

“Me done to you?” Stark replies, voice shaking with an anxious laugh. “I’m fucking brilliant, but this is beyond me.” 

Loki bares his teeth. “What is beyond you?” 

Wordlessly, Stark lifts his left hand into Loki’s view. 

The god’s eyes widen. 

He knows, even before he looks down to confirm it, that the Thread so delicately wrapped around Stark’s finger is one and the same as the Thread wrapped around his own.


End file.
